


I have a history

by Builder



Series: Canon ships and all that jazz [9]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Arguing, BAMF Laura Barton, Domestic, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Motion Sickness, Sickfic, Vomiting, carsickness, relationships, struggling clint barton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 09:02:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15793332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: Note to self: don't let the wife driveActually, scratch that.  Note to self: be ready on time._____Clint's propensity to motion sickness continues to be a real problem.





	I have a history

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @builder051

The car horn honks loudly from the driveway.

“I know,” Clint mutters, rushing to the front door, his dress shoes in one hand and his suit jacket in the other.  “I’m coming.”  He throws the jacket over his shoulder to join his tie and locks up as quickly as he can.

Clint pauses when he sees Laura behind the wheel, the driver’s side window down.  “Hey,” he says, opening the passenger door.  “Who said you were driving?”

“Honestly, Clint?”  The irritation is plain in her voice.  “I think it would’ve been quicker to get the kids dressed up.”

“Well, sorry,” Clint snipes back.  He drops his shoes on the ground and steps into them, squishing down the backs in a manner that’s probably not good for Italian leather.  “I’m ready now.”  He starts to open the door to the driver’s seat.

“Nope,” Laura says, waggling her finger at him.  “You’re over here.”  She pats the seat beside her.

“Jesus Christ, babe.”  Clint shakes his head.  “Come on.  I’m ready.”

“No, you’re not.  Get in.  Tie your tie.”

“Honey—”

“I’m serious.  We’re already late.”  Laura gives him a hard look.  “I can drive.”

“God.  Fuck,” Clint says under his breath.  Then, “Ok, ok, fine.”  He rounds the hood of the car and flops angrily into the passenger seat.  He slams the door and fumes silently as Laura reverses out of the driveway.

She glances over at him when they reach the road.  “Is your hair still wet?” she asks.

“Probably.”

“Work gives you two seconds to be mission ready, but it takes you two hours to get ready for this?  I swear, Clint, I could’ve got the kids ready—”

“You already said that,” Clint snaps.  “But lucky you, the kids are playing Nintendo eating a metric ton of sugar, thanks to grandma.  I wish that’s how I was spending my evening.”

“If you want to jump out, be my guest.”  Laura turns onto the highway.

“Very funny.”  Clint pops his collar and begins to work on his tie.  “I just…don’t go to a lot of galas.”

“I know,” Laura sighs.  “If I put your crabbiness and sluggishness down to nerves, you’re slightly easier to deal with.”

“Oh, come on.  With a dress like that, you’re one and done.”  Clint gestures at Laura’s outfit while he fumbles his tie one-handed.  “I got zippers and buttons and…fucking silk slip knots.”

“You just keep digging yourself deeper and deeper.”  Laura shakes her head.  “You should’ve stopped while you were ahead.  While I was feeling sorry for you.”

“Fucking Christ.”  Clint finishes with his tie and leans his head against the window.  With the pent-up frustration and time spent focused on something other than the horizon, his head is beginning to ache.  Guilt sparks uneasiness in the pit of Clint’s stomach.  He forms his jacket into a wad in his lap and wraps his arms around his abdomen.

“Don’t do that.  It’s gonna be wrinkled,” Laura admonishes him.

Clint ignores her and hugs the jacket tighter.  “Give it a rest, hon.”

Laura’s quiet for a minute, but she can’t seem to help herself.  “You already look like you got ready in a rush.  You could put in some effort not to make it worse.”

Clint’s head throbs and brings on a flush of nausea.  Clamminess breaks out across the back of his neck.  He knows he’s fast approaching the point of no return. “Laura…” he says, quietly before swallowing hard.

“Honestly, you’re gonna look like a hobo who slept in his clothes.  I don’t know why you even bothered to dress up.  Why not wear your pajamas to the event that’s been on the calendar for three months—”

“Honey?”  Clint’s back teeth are swimming in bitter saliva.  His jaw feels ready to unhinge at any moment, and his hands tremble even though they’re clasped in his lap.

“God, what?”  Laura finally looks over at him.

“Can you please pull over?” Clint breathes, desperately swallowing against a rising gag.

“Shit,” Laura curses, whipping her head around and changing lanes.

Clint retches, but squeezes his lips together.  He clamps one hand over his mouth and fumbles for the door handle with the other.  The car barely comes to a stop in the breakdown lane before he’s leaning over the pavement to heave up a loose slurry of stomach contents.

Laura turns off the engine, and Clint’s grateful the seat’s no longer vibrating beneath him.  He breathes raggedly for a moment, then vomits again.

“Ok…”  Laura sounds like she’s collecting herself.  The driver’s side door slams, and suddenly she’s guiding Clint’s feet out of the car and pushing his head between his knees.

“Sorry, babe,” Clint mutters, fighting a hiccup.

“Shush,” Laura says.  She pats him on the back.  “Breathe through it.”

Clint heaves once more and spits out a pitiful mouthful of bile.  He raises his head, shoulders jerking with a hiccup.  “I’m…I’m ok,” he chokes.

“I know.”  Laura gives him a wan smile.  “It’s…probably my fault.”

Clint shrugs.  “It’s ok.”  He swallows a hiccup and spits again.  “But, can I drive now?”


End file.
